


Paris, 1954

by leahxleah



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, M/M, PI Grantaire, Thenardier gets killed, descriptions of crime scenes, gavroche - Freeform, implied PTSD, lawyer Enjolras, murder investigation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:53:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leahxleah/pseuds/leahxleah
Summary: It was safe to say the scotch was not sitting well in Grantaire's stomach, but that could have been for a multitude of reasons. The fact that Eponine’s father was dead. The fact that she was sitting in a jail cell. The fact that Enjolras was sitting, dripping wet, in Grantaire’s client chair. The writing was on the wall: this would be crossing the line between professional and personal. He would be ruining the boundaries he had carefully set up between he and Eponine. He would be bulldozing the wall he had spent years constructing between him and Enjolras. It would be messy.Correction: it would be a complete fucking mess.“I’ll start tomorrow,” he said.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Javert/Jean Valjean, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Montparnasse/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hanna_kloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanna_kloss/gifts).



> Hey! I used to write for the Les Mis fandom seven ish years ago, and it brought me a lot of joy. I had no idea folks still read my fics, but I'm really glad to hear some people are! I had mostly forgotten about this account until the lovely hanna_kloss reached out to me to ask if she could translate If Vidocq Could See Us Now into Chinese! What an honor! This reminded me of how much I love writing long elaborate French names and detective stories, so here we are. Thanks Hanna! Gifting this to you :) 
> 
> All feedback is appreciated! Hope you enjoy.

Paris, 1954

Grantaire knew Enjolras was coming before he knocked. The stairs up to Grantaire’s office had made it through the war by the skin of their teeth and hadn’t improved with age. He heard Enjolras bound up the first few steps and then stop, proceeding slower. He knew by the shadows under his door that Enjolras was standing there. The knock did not come until nearly a full minute later. Grantaire took his sweet time getting up from his desk, hoping Enjolras would leave before Grantaire reached the door.

Enjolras didn’t. In fact, when Grantaire delayed further, he heard a sharp, “I know you’re in there.”

“Could be anyone, at this hour,” Grantaire replied.

“It’s not anyone, it’s you.”

Grantaire wiped his damp palms on his pants. They were rumpled. He still smelled like the scotch he had finished drinking fifteen minutes ago. But if Enjolras wanted to be here, Enjolras could be here. 

Grantaire opened the door. Enjolras was in as sorry a state as Grantaire had ever seen him. His usually slick coif had been washed out by the rain, and his jacket clung heavily to his thin frame. His shoes were unsalvageable.

“Oh, is it raining?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras shot him a dark look. “I came here from the police station.”

“That’s a hell of a walk.”

“I didn’t spot a cab,” Enjolras said. He looked at the warm sitting office beyond Grantaire’s shoulder. “Do you have a heater?”

Grantaire let Enjolras in.

Enjolras hung up his drenched coat on the coat rack. Grantaire wished on every level of his being that Enjolras would take off more. Enjolras was in his black court dress with that tight white collar. Grantaire had to look away when Enjolras tugged at it.

Enjolras sat primly in Grantaire’s client chair. Any hope Grantaire had of the encounter turning away from business died as Enjolras neatly crossed his legs. Grantaire sat across the desk from Enjolras. Fine, he wanted to make it business? Grantaire would give him business.

“Smoke?” Grantaire offered.

Enjolras shook his head. Of course, Grantaire realized – it was too earthly of a vice. “I know we haven’t talked much since the Christmas party.”

“You call that talking?”

“And I know we ended things on a bad note,” Enjolras said quickly. “But something’s come up.”

“You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

They sat in silence for a moment too long, and then started to both speak at once.

“It’s not my fault you’ve got thin skin!”

“You’re trying to blame the fact that you’re an asshole on other people,” Grantaire pointed out.

“I stand by what I said. The world doesn’t need more pessimists.”

“If we had more pessimists, the war wouldn’t have happened.”

“Not this again. God, R, I’m here for a reason!”

“Which you’ll get to at some point, I’m sure.”

Enjolras sobered up. “When was the last time you spoke to Eponine?”

Grantaire sat up. “This morning, why?”

“Her father was murdered.”

It took the words a moment to sink in for Grantaire, since there was a damp curl drooping in front of Enjolras’ forehead.

“When?”

“2 p.m.”

“Broad daylight? He really pissed someone off, then.”

“They found Eponine at the crime scene.”

“Shit,” Grantaire said. “How bad is it?”

“They arrested her.”

Grantaire exhaled sharply. “That’s – fuck. Okay. Okay.”

“I’ve taken the case on,” Enjolras said. “Pro bono. My firm is furious with me.”

“Is it unwinnable?”

Enjolras winced. “Nothing’s unwinnable.”

“You aren’t reassuring me.”

“I don’t have my usual resources. My firm is refusing to pay for an investigation—”

“—and that’s where I come in, isn’t it?” Grantaire asked, the beginnings of a headache forming. 

“You’re her friend. You’re a PI. I thought…”

“Do you know how many times I’ve tried to interfere in her life?” Grantaire lit himself a cigarette, leaning towards the window so the smoke wouldn’t offend Enjolras’s delicate constitution. “She wouldn’t want me involved.”

“I don’t care what she wants right now,” Enjolras said. “I don’t want her in prison.”

“I didn’t know you two were close.”

“We aren’t.”

“You think she’s innocent?”

“I think she deserves a fair trial.”

“That’s not a glowing review,” Grantaire said. He chewed his lower lip, then remarked, “I don’t want her in prison either. She’s hard enough already.”

“You’re one of her closest friends,” Enjolras said. “Do you think she could have –”

“—anyone’s capable of anything under the right circumstances.”

“Not the answer I was hoping for.”

“This isn’t going to be an easy case. Do you know what you’re getting into?”

“Do you?”

“Always,” Grantaire said.

It was safe to say the scotch was not sitting well in his stomach, but that could have been for a multitude of reasons. The fact that Eponine’s father was dead. The fact that she was sitting in a jail cell. The fact that Enjolras was sitting, dripping wet, in Grantaire’s client chair.

There was really no way to say no. Eponine was in trouble. Enjolras was asking for his help, staring back at him with wide eyes and lips drawn into a hard line. But the writing was on the wall: this would be crossing the line between professional and personal. He would be ruining the boundaries he had carefully set up between he and Eponine. He would be bulldozing the wall he had spent years constructing between him and Enjolras. It would be messy.

Correction: it would be a complete fucking mess.

“I’ll start tomorrow,” he said.

“Excellent. We can see the crime scene in the morning and speak to Eponine in the afternoon.”

“I don’t need an escort.”

“I’ll be assisting you,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire watched the bob of Enjolras’ Adam’s apple with the knowledge he was in too deep, and there was very little he could do to stop himself. “Why?”

“I want to know your findings the second you have them.”

“You have an office phone, don’t you?”

“I can’t afford any mistakes.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “And there it is.”

“What?”

“The reason I didn’t want to work with you.”

“And you’re a drunk,” Enjolras said.

“You really know how to butter a guy up.”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “Please, Grantaire.”

The words hit their intended target. Grantaire shut his eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink, then nodded. “Do you have the case file?”

Enjolras placed a soggy folder on Grantaire’s desk. The ink had run in places, but Enjolras’s scrawl was still clear. Grantaire didn’t dare glance over the details just yet. He knew they would be brutal, and he knew he wasn’t ready for them tonight.

“I’ll call you a cab,” Grantaire said.

Morning came. Grantaire didn’t. He had spent the evening trying to remember the places Enjolras’s robe had clung to but found himself arguing with a voice that sounded like Enjolras’s about the _morality_ of it all. If Enjolras was an acquaintance, it wouldn’t hurt to jerk off to him. But now Enjolras was a client, and fuck, Grantaire couldn’t afford to pine right now.

He did, anyway.

Approaching the run-down row house always made Grantaire’s stomach sink. The front of the building was stained by what he had always hoped was soot, but had never summoned the courage to ask. The windows were so warped and dirty that it was a miracle if any light shone through at all.

Grantaire was fifteen minutes early. It was a hangover from the days of hanging out in backrooms and cafés, listening to conversations and absently doodling. No one looked twice at the drunk scribbling in his sketchbook if he was already there when they arrived. Which usually meant –

“You’re early,” Enjolras called from across the street.

“Fuck,” Grantaire muttered.

Enjolras was obnoxiously handsome, but that was nothing new. It didn’t help that he could clearly afford a tailor, unlike Grantaire, who had worn the same coat for the past decade. It looked tired, but hey, so did he. But he wasn’t the only one who was showing signs of wear and tear. Even in the low blue morning light, he could see bags forming under Enjolras’s eyes.

“Did you get any sleep?” Grantaire asked.

“Did you?”

“Deflecting.”

Enjolras huffed, agitated. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Read me like that. Don’t –” he took a breath. “I need you to focus on the case.”

“I am,” Grantaire said. “Eponine can’t afford us fucking up. This is a marathon, not a sprint.”

Enjolras’s jaw clenched. “Then I’m going to need you sober.”

“You don’t want that.”

“I need your mind clear.”

“It hasn’t been clear since ’43. That’s not going to change,” Grantaire said.

“There’s a lot at stake here.”

“There was a lot at stake then, too.” The crease in between Enjolras’s eyebrows deepened. It made Grantaire wonder what Enjolras’s father might have looked like. “I won’t get pissed. I’ll give you that much.”

“Charming.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Grantaire said, opening the front door for Enjolras.

Enjolras’s lips twitched, but the emotion was impossible to decipher. Something between disdain and amusement. Whatever it was died as soon as they stepped into Eponine’s apartment building.

The stairwell was dark, but Grantaire could still make out something scuttling into a crack in the wall. Several faint conversations were audible, but it was difficult to pinpoint exactly which apartment they were coming from.

“Do the cops know we’re here?” Grantaire muttered, his lips close to Enjolras’s ear.

Enjolras shook his head, pressing a finger against his lips. Grantaire sighed, then let Enjolras lead the way up, and up, and up. Grantaire fought valiantly not to gasp for breath or give any indication his legs were aching. Only the flare of Enjolras’s nostrils and the bead of sweat that ran down his face gave him away.

_We’re getting old,_ Grantaire realized.

There was police tape over Eponine’s front door, but no one stood watch.

Enjolras tried the door, then swore softly to himself when it was locked.

“Can you pick a lock?” he whispered to Grantaire.

“This one, yes,” Grantaire said, pulling out his copy of the key and unlocking the door.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, holding up the crime scene tape for Grantaire to step under. As soon as they had stepped into the gloom, Grantaire shut the door quietly behind them. It wasn’t until Enjolras flicked the lights on that Grantaire realized he had blood on his hands.

It was all over the inside of the door, frantic fingerprints smeared on the doorknob. They were smaller than Grantaire’s, slight.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Have they already –”

“—yes,” Enjolras replied. “They combed over it yesterday.”

Grantaire turned towards the rest of the room, swatting flies out of his face. The apartment had always been dim, but never dirty. Eponine made a point to keep the place habitable, and there were traces of her efforts, even now. The broken glass on the kitchen counter was clean. The floorboards were gleaming underneath the splatters and smears. The curtains, half torn off, looked like they had been recently ironed.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. But Grantaire couldn’t help but think of it as he took in the room.

“I took her dancing,” he said quietly. “Every Friday.”

“Are you two going steady?”

“I love her too much to put her through that.”

“Ah,” Enjolras said, shoulders relaxing. “I know her through Marius. He’s not, uh, handling it well.”

“She called him first,” Grantaire surmised. “He called you. Isn’t he a lawyer too?”

“He’s too close to the case.”

“Fine by me. Any guy dense enough to miss out on a beautiful woman in love with him wouldn’t be smart enough to win this.”

“The heart wants what it wants, or so I’m told,” Enjolras said dryly.

Grantaire shoved his hands into his coat pockets, turning his gaze to the room. It was like looking at the sun, the way his eyes were aching. Still, he made himself look. He made himself imagine a fight, much like the thousands of fights that happened within these walls. That image came easily. He had seen the bruises, mostly on knuckles and occasionally lips. It was hard to know where exactly they came from. She had always reminded him of a feral tom cat. Rough around the edges, territorial, affectionate to any kind hand that came her way. 

The television was stolen. Grantaire had been out drinking with Eponine the night they had brought it back. She had downed four whisky sours and then he half carried her up the stairs. He dropped her unceremoniously on the couch, enjoying her raucous laugh. Then the front door swung open and Thenardier and Montparnasse spilled in, crowing victoriously about the new tv. Someone had left their truck unlocked at the wrong stop. Or the right one, in their eyes.

They were setting it up loudly, and –

\-- there was a hand on his elbow. “Grantaire.”

“Present,” he said. The touch brought him down to reality; down to the same couch, now blood soaked. 

Enjolras’s grip on Grantaire tightened, then he let go. “You knew him.”

“Not biblically.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You were acquainted.”

“More with the aftermath than the man himself,” Grantaire said. “I helped her pack her stuff and move out a few times.”

“She came back?”

“For Gav, yeah.” Grantaire stared at the wall. “Or she’d run out of money.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Shit. If I had known –”

“—you weren’t supposed to. She wouldn’t have accepted charity, not from friends. Or friends of friends, in your case.”

“Someone should have done _something_.”

Grantaire gestured to the couch. “Someone did.”

It was clear where Thenardier had sat last. The stain had turned a rusty brown and the flies bobbed around it, drunk from the fumes. Blood had sprayed across the television and walls in a light mist.

“They’re saying someone cut his throat from behind,” Enjolras said. “And then he –”

“—crawled to the door, yeah,” Grantaire agreed, feeling suddenly lightheaded. “Murder weapon?”

“They haven’t found it yet. Are you alright?”

Grantaire crossed the room and flung open the windows, terrifying a group of pigeons that were nesting nearby. He took a deep breath of air, willing himself not to be sick, not in front of Enjolras. The morning air was slightly better air quality than the midday smog, and it brought the world back into focus.

The window frame itself was clean. Too clean, given the bloody fingerprints left on the roof tiles, inches beyond the tired glass. It was impossible to mistake the size for an adult’s hand, and Grantaire felt the gin he had for breakfast climb up his throat. 

“You’re too close to this,” Enjolras said. “I should have realized.”

“I’m not the right kind of detective,” Grantaire muttered, focusing on the faint smell of Enjolras’s cologne over the heady aroma of decay. “Want to find out if your husband’s a cheating bastard? I’m your guy. Want to find your missing cousin? No problem. Murder? That’s the fuzz’s territory.”

“I see,” Enjolras said. The deep lines on his forehead were back.

Grantaire’s hands were still unpleasantly sticky. He stared out at the tiny fingerprints, just out of Enjolras’s eyeline.

“I said I’d do it,” Grantaire said. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t get queasy.”


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire was intimately acquainted with the Musain’s lavatory. The dirty, cracked tiles welcomed him home, as did the tiny mirror. On rougher evenings, he found himself on intimate terms with the porcelain goddess. And on the occasional good night, he had enjoyed quick, loveless fucks with men who had made the mistake of glancing at him twice.

This time, Enjolras was waiting for him on the other side of the door.

“I ordered you a coffee.”

“Irish?” Grantaire asked, hopefully.

“Black,” Enjolras said, settling into a chair. The Café had survived the war with only minor renovations needed after a few nasty skirmishes with Nazis, the worst damage from an overly ambitious Molotov cocktail.

Bahorel emerged from behind the bar, carrying two mugs. Confusion dawned on his face when he saw Grantaire sitting across from Enjolras, but to Bahorel’s credit, not a drop of coffee spilled.

“So, hell’s frozen over?” he asked.

“We’re collaborating on an investigation,” Enjolras said.

“Is that what the kids call it these days?” Bahorel replied.

From across the table, Grantaire could see Enjolras’s ears go red.

“You’re testing the limits of Enjolras’s liberalism,” Grantaire said. “He’s a good Catholic boy, Bahorel.”

“Fuck off,” Enjolras said, colour spreading to his cheeks. “It’s for Eponine.”

That killed the mood. Bahorel sat down across from them, waving to Musichetta behind the bar to take over for him. She tossed a towel over her shoulder and crossed the room, flipping the sign to ‘Closed’.

“Hey –” Bahorel began. 

“—she didn’t do it,” Musichetta insisted, taking a seat next to Grantaire.

“Oh?” Enjolras asked.

“Or maybe she did,” Musichetta continued. “But you’re going to make it look like she didn’t.”

“I need to know the truth, one way or another,” Enjolras said. “Then I can decide if I can plead temporary insanity or self-defense or –” 

“—she won’t go for that shit,” Grantaire cut in. Enjolras shot Grantaire a dark look, but when had that ever stopped him before? “She’s too proud.”

“But – couldn’t they…” Musichetta mimed chopping.

“Not going to happen,” Enjolras said, firmly. “There’s plenty of circumstantial evidence that he was a bastard. We just have to pull on the jury’s heartstrings.” 

“Relying on men to do the right thing?” Grantaire scoffed. “You’re better off creating reasonable doubt.”

Enjolras’s eyebrows shot up, and Grantaire temporarily delighted in seeing the lines that creased Enjolras’s forehead. But as soon as they had appeared, they were gone again, and Enjolras was considering Grantaire.

They had never made eye contact for this long before. It was almost uncomfortable, the way Enjolras scanned Grantaire’s face. Grantaire kept his look as neutral as possible, but he could feel faint beads of sweat form on his forehead.

Abruptly, Enjolras turned to Bahorel. “When you get the chance, can you bring us some croissants?”

“Anything for you, o’ captain my captain.” Bahorel stood up, offering a hand to Musichetta. She groaned, climbing to her feet.

“Bring our girl back,” she said.

And then they were alone.

Grantaire stared down into his coffee. He could tell Enjolras was staring, but Grantaire refused to meet Enjolras’s gaze. Surprisingly, Enjolras didn’t push. They both sat in silence, waiting for a breakfast neither of them would be able to swallow.

Narrow, cobbled streets widened into thicker ones. Enjolras’s legs were slightly longer than Grantaire’s, but they walked more or less in stride. When they had first met, Grantaire had joked that Enjolras walked like he was leading an army – back straight, fists clenched at his sides. Even as a student, the lawyer had taken himself seriously. He carried himself the same now: a man on a mission.

“She hasn’t said a word to anyone, even me. I’m hoping you…” Enjolras trailed off, gazing forward at the intimidating building in front of them.

Grantaire scoffed, shaking his head.

“Please.”

“I’ll try, sweetheart, but I’m not going to make any promises.”

“Promise not to call me ‘sweetheart’ and we have a deal.”

“Sure, doll-face.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but still held the door open for Grantaire.

No police station in the world is a pleasant place to be. Grantaire had wound up in this particular establishment on just enough occasions to know the rough layout; the cell at the end of the block was always the most fragrant, but the drunk tank was a close rival. Enjolras clearly had some experience of his own – a few heads nodded in his direction as they walked in. He walked with purpose towards the holding cell block, Grantaire following in his wake.

They didn’t quite make it there. A large hand clapped Enjolras on the shoulder as he reached for the door.

Grantaire was unsurprised to see Inspector Javert looming down at both of them. Enjolras shrugged off the grasp, staring defiantly up at the cop.

“Enjolras. To what do we owe the displeasure?” Javert asked.

Javert wasn’t much taller than Enjolras –he had at most two inches on Enjolras, but there was at least a fifty-pound difference between the two of them.

“I’m here to see my client.” Enjolras squared his shoulders, playing the part of the intimidating defense lawyer. Grantaire watched Javert’s lips twitch up into a ghost of a smile.

“The Thenardier girl?” Javert asked. “Twice in as many days – how lucky. Do all your clients get this treatment? Or just the pretty ones?”

“Do all defense attorneys get this treatment, or just the pretty ones?” Grantaire replied. Enjolras spun around to glare at him, but Grantaire was watching the way the vein in Javert’s neck throbbed.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Javert said, slightly too quickly.

“Neither would I,” Grantaire drawled. “We’d like to see the Thenardier girl, now.”

“She already has a visitor,” Javert said, eyes narrowing at Grantaire. “I’ve arrested you before, haven’t I?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Grantaire said.

“Should we change that?”

“Try it and I’ll make sure you lose your badge,” Enjolras hit back, and Grantaire hadn’t seen that look in his eyes for a long time. _Righteousness_. It should have irritated the hell out of Grantaire, but knowing it was for him was slightly endearing.

“I haven’t committed any crimes lately,” Grantaire remarked. “Not ones we’re not both guilty of, anyway.”

Javert’s eyes widened in recognition, but Grantaire didn’t savor the moment. Something unpleasant twisted in his gut as he saw the way Javert paled.

“I’m her attorney,” Enjolras cut in. “Tell her visitor time’s up.”

Javert glared at Grantaire for a beat longer, then hit the button to unlock the holding block door.

“Do it yourself,” Javert said.

Enjolras turned on his heel, heading down the hall. Grantaire lingered in Javert’s presence, staring up at a face full of five o’clock shadow with eyes that seemed both panicked and exhausted. Neither of them said anything, an uncomfortable silence building between them.

Javert was the first to break, speaking in a low voice that could barely be heard above the din of the station. “I’m not doing you any favors.”

“No. But you are going to play nice,” Grantaire said.

“Am I?”

“No planted evidence. No forced confessions.”

“Grantaire!” Enjolras called back, halfway down the hall. “For Christ’s sake, can you hurry up?”

Javert settled on an expression of disdain. “I don’t need to. Your girl was found alone with the body, covered in blood. No jury will see past that.”

“You worry about your job, I’ll worry about mine.”

The smell of cleaning products barely covered the aroma of urine, and Grantaire sighed, doing his best not to breathe it in. Enjolras had a stern expression on his face, but it softened as Grantaire approached. Just beyond them, a tall, well-dressed man sat in front of a holding cell, murmuring in a low voice. The lighting was poor, and the man’s face was lost in shadow, but Grantaire recognized his profile easily enough – Montparnasse.

“Done making friends?” Enjolras asked, but Grantaire held a finger up to his lips, shushing the other man. Enjolras’s scowl deepened, but after a beat he caught on to Grantaire’s plan and both men listened to the final snippets of conversation.

“Do you realize what you’re—”

“—don’t treat me like I’m stupid, Montparnasse,” Eponine said.

“Then stop being stupid,” he hissed. “There’s no one on this earth worth dying for.” 

It made sense to turn to the most handsome man in the room to see his reaction, but for once Enjolras was staring back at Grantaire. Sort of, anyway – he was glaring at Grantaire’s chest as if it had personally offended him. Grantaire recognized the checked out look in Enjolras’s eyes and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You with me?” Grantaire murmured.

Enjolras’s head tipped slightly to the side, his cheek brushing against Grantaire’s knuckles. Abruptly, he straightened, jerking away from Grantaire’s touch.

Right. Well.

“There’s people worth killing for,” Eponine said. “Maybe that’s good enough.”

“Fuck me,” Enjolras muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He marched towards Eponine’s cell, loudly and with purpose. Montparnasse jumped to attention, reaching for something in his pocket. Grantaire had money on it being a knife. Acting on instinct, he put himself squarely at Enjolras’s side.

“I’m her lawyer, cowboy,” Enjolras said. “And she isn’t allowed conjugal visits.”

“Hilarious,” Montparnasse spat. “Hey, maybe you can plead insanity. Get her sent some place nice, in the country.”

“That’s not what asylums are, you dense motherfucker,” Eponine said. “Enjolras, can you get him to leave?”

“I want to know how he got in in the first place,” Enjolras remarked.

“Why, is being bent a requirement for getting in?” Montparnasse looked like the cat that got the cream, sizing up Enjolras.

“Hit and a miss there, sweetheart,” Grantaire said, patting Montparnasse on the cheek. “Get gone.”

Montparnasse turned on his heel, skulking out. He shot Grantaire and Enjolras a few dark looks over his shoulder, but Enjolras returned the sneer tenfold.

Eponine cleared her throat. Grantaire sheepishly turned, awaiting her wrath. Instead, he was graced with a tired but wry smile. She turned to Enjolras, scoffing.

“You couldn’t hire _any_ other PI?”

“It’s a very busy season for PIs,” Grantaire quipped, pulling up the stool Montparnasse had been sitting on. “But I managed to squeeze you in.”

She looked tired. Her hair was tousled and greasy, and her mascara smudged. Not from crying, but from rubbing her eyes. Grantaire could see the traces of black on her thumb. She sighed, a half happy, half hysterical sound.

Suddenly his hand was in hers, and a cigarette passed between their fingers. She popped it in between her lips and stuck it just far enough out of the bars for Grantaire to light it. Eponine inhaled deeply. Within a few breaths, she had regained her composure.

“You ever try quitting?” she asked. “It’s not for the faint of heart.”

“The last thing I’d call your heart is faint, kiddo,” Grantaire said.

She smiled but didn’t meet his eyes – instead, she stared at her hand, which was trembling. “I’m not sad he’s dead.”

Enjolras sighed, irritated. “Listen, you can’t keep talking like that.”

Eponine laughed – a short, sharp bark that reminded Grantaire of her mother’s. As soon as it left her mouth, Eponine must have realized the same thing.

“I’m a Thenardier,” she said. “We’re far too slick for guillotines.”

“Then tell me what you know,” Enjolras urged. “Please, Eponine. I need to know what I’m up against.”

Eponine took a drag from her cigarette, her brow furrowed. “There’s things… things that don’t make sense.”

“You can’t remember?” Enjolras pushed.

“I – it doesn’t… line up properly.”

“A shrink,” Enjolras said. “I’ll bring in a shrink, and –” 

Grantaire reached for Enjolras’s wrist carefully, like it would burn him to make contact. When he did grab it, it was far more gently than he was aiming for, but it got the point across. Enjolras turned to Grantaire, eyes wide and full of indignation. The look softened into resignation, and Enjolras pulled away.

“—or I can go for a walk,” he said.

He shot Grantaire a look that said _get answers_. Grantaire kept his face deliberately neutral, tipping his hat at Enjolras.

Neither Grantaire nor Eponine spoke until the hallway door shut. Eponine finished her cigarette, and Grantaire passed her another.

“You’re an enabler,” she said, leaning forward for him to light it.

“I figured you could keep that one for trading,” Grantaire remarked. “Since you’re dead set on going to prison.”

She scoffed, tucking it behind her ear. “Maybe I can get sent to an asylum.”

“Or maybe you could walk free,” he replied. “Live your life. Go meet a man who actually comes when you call him.”

Eponine’s face fell, and Grantaire could tell that punch was below the belt. He opened his mouth to apologize, but she silenced him with a look.

“Marius called Enjolras,” she said. “That’s…something, I guess. More than he would do for a stranger.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, listening to the din of the cells around them. Someone was yelling to themselves, someone else was singing, and in the distance, Grantaire heard what sounded like someone retching.

“You know –” Grantaire began.

“—I know,” Eponine said.

“Then say it.”

“I deserve better,” she said, the phrase clearly rehearsed. As an afterthought, she added, “And Marius deserves Cosette. Deserves a girl who isn’t in prison, anyway.”

“And you deserve someone who doesn’t have two left feet,” he pointed out. “At least get you a guy that’ll dance with you.”

“I already have a dance partner,” she said, shooting him a look. “Although I suspect I’ll be missing our Friday appointment.”

“For a crime you didn’t commit, at that,” Grantaire said. He knew he was crossing a line, knew he was about to make a mistake he couldn’t come back from. He shut his eyes and asked, “Where’s Gav, ‘ponine?”

Eponine jerked like a current was running through her. Grantaire had never seen that much anger directed at him from her, and it hurt. God, did it hurt. But he sat there and took it like a man, ready for the hellfire he’d rightfully earned to rain down on him.

“Fuck you,” she spat, standing and turning away from him. “You – fucking bastard. He’s a _kid,_ you sick son of a bitch.”

“A kid that knows how to use a straight razor.”

“He grew up in the war, of course he knows how to use a damn –” her shoulders shook. “Fuck you, Grantaire. Your family doesn’t talk to you, so you decide to destroy mine? Is that it? No one loves you so you try and drag the whole world down with you?”

Grantaire clasped his hands tightly between his knees, watching his fingertips turn white from the pressure. He let her rant. Let her take her swings – which were well directed at his soft spots, the things he had let slip over years of friendship. It wasn’t unlike tuning out bombs, or screams, really. He listened to the sounds separately; repeated the vowels and consonants to himself until they didn’t make sense anymore. The minutes added up, and Grantaire could tell by the repetition of her insults that she was running out of material. Then – quiet. Eponine stood in the middle of her cell, staring into middle distance. Exhausted. Sad. Terrified.

She buried her face in her hands. She inhaled once, twice, then let out a sob. Grantaire reached for her through the bars, waiting. A few teary breaths later, she grabbed his hand. Her fingers were warm in his own, and he ran a thumb over her knuckles.

“This is why I didn’t call you,” she said, wiping her cheek with her spare hand. “Artist, spy, PI – you see things people don’t. And you love me. You might be the only person on this miserable rock who does.”

“I think we both know that’s not true,” he said. “But yes, I love you. I love you too much to let you throw your life away.”

“He’s just a kid,” she repeated, tears spilling down her cheeks. “He’s got a whole future in front of him. Please, please, please don’t tell Enjolras.”

  
Grantaire took a deep breath, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the shock of blond hair in the hallway – just out of Eponine’s eyeshot, but most definitely not out of earshot. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“He just wants to help,” Grantaire tried. “He’s a good man.”

Eponine scoffed. “He’s a good lawyer, not man. Don’t let your dick do the thinking, R.”

Grantaire stood, doing his best to hide the flush covering his face. “Don’t do this. Don’t let family be the noose that hangs you, kid.”

“It was always going to be,” Eponine replied.

Grantaire had never pegged Enjolras as being a particularly perceptive man. He had spent the better part of the war being teased for his righteousness, his singular focus, his inability to see that the drunk that followed him from room to room was in love with him. But Enjolras was also capable of surprising Grantaire, on occasion.

Wordlessly, Enjolras lead him across town to a bar – an American one, where the menu items had translations and tourists filled the booths around them. They chose a seat near the back, and Grantaire sank into the cracked leather and tried his hardest not to think.

“Two bourbons, neat,” Enjolras told a passing waitress, and she nodded sharply at him.

“Leave the bottle,” Grantaire croaked. He was met with a light kick in the shins, but the fatigue was equally evident on Enjolras’s face.

Grantaire rested his chin on his hands, staring unabashedly at the handsome man in front of him. A cool, resigned gaze met his.

“I think it’s safe to say Gavroche—” Grantaire began, but he was quickly cut off.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked.

It was strange, to look Enjolras in the eye. To have his gaze returned. Stranger still to know Enjolras had been looking at him at all, when they weren’t locked in debate. But his face was soft, now. Grantaire’s mouth hung open for a second, waiting for words to spill out. None came. He shut it sharply and shook his head, pissed at himself for not being able to summon a witty deflection.

“She’s not at her best, right now,” he said. “She’s human. You’ve said worse.”

Enjolras flinched. He was saved when the waitress returned with the bottle of bourbon and two glasses. Her eyes flitted between them, acknowledging the tension. She turned quickly on her heel, but Grantaire caught a glimpse of her smirk in the reflection of the bar. He tried to focus on her instead of the handsome man in front of him, but it was impossible.

In the seconds he had been distracted, Enjolras’s hand snaked across the table. His fingers – long, elegant, untouchable – wrapped around Grantaire’s own calloused digits, just for a moment. Enjolras’s brow was furrowed, lips slightly pursed, like he was on the verge of saying something. But when he caught Grantaire staring at him, he withdrew.

Grantaire took the bottle with shaking hands, pouring Enjolras a drink, and then one for himself. He stared up at Enjolras’s warped reflection through the glass because it was easier, because it hurt less, because he could still feel the residual warmth from where Enjolras had touched him.

“So, I suppose we should be looking for –” Grantaire began, but Enjolras cut him off.

“—I’m sorry,” Enjolras said quickly. It looked uncomfortable for him to say. “I’ve always enjoyed our debates, but I’m aware I get too passionate at times. It was never my intention to be… uh, hurtful.”

“Bullshit,” Grantaire said, laughing, but the face that met his own was very serious.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Someone knows. Montparnasse?”

“Would have fed him to the wolves, if it meant setting Eponine free,” Grantaire replied.

“Montparnasse is in love with her?” Enjolras clarified, and Grantaire resisted the urge to grin.

“If he was capable, I’m sure he would. But they’ve fucked, yeah. And I’m sure he’d rather she’d be out of jail for that reason.” Grantaire cleared his throat, looking everywhere but Enjolras’s face. “I know someone who might have an idea.”

“Excellent, we should –”

Grantaire held a finger up, silencing Enjolras. “It might not be in your best interest to join me.” At Enjolras’s furrowed brow, Grantaire sighed and continued. “He happens to work at a gentlemen’s club.”

“I’m a part of gentlemen’s clubs,” Enjolras argued.

“For men with the Italian vice?”

“I don’t know any Italians, but I’m sure –”

“—queers, Apollo,” Grantaire said. “And no offence, but you’re – well, _you_. I doubt you’d be left alone. I’ll go and report back.”

Enjolras stared down at his glass, which he gripped hard enough that Grantaire was surprised it didn’t break. “You’re familiar with this club?”

“I find myself in a wide variety of establishments, in my line of work,” Grantaire lied. He met Enjolras’s gaze, then, daring him to call it for what it was.

“I’m no dame. Quit worrying about me,” Enjolras said. “We’ll go together.”

Before Grantaire could protest, Enjolras was standing, tossing francs on the table and donning his hat.

“Pick me up at eight,” he said, the picture of cold indifference.

Grantaire watched Enjolras’s back as he walked away – handsome, tall, the stuff of Greek myths. A headache that had been forming since the morning returned in full force between his brows, a spot reserved for pretty blonds with no notion of how they looked to the people around them.

Grantaire reached for the bottle, ready to pour himself another drink. Then he felt the ghost of warm fingers run over his own, light and tentative, making him pause. He reached again, but the fingers were there once more, firmer now. His hand hung in midair, torn. He dropped it, letting it hit the table with a small thud.

“Damn him,” he muttered. 


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire leaned against the doorway of Enjolras’s building, having a discreet smoke and doing his best not to catch the attention of the doorman, who was eyeing him in that way that could either mean Grantaire was in for a fuck or a fight. He had done his best to clean himself up – a quick shave, a splash of cologne and his cleanest shirt hung from his frame. On top of that, he had opted to don a very American coat, hoping the greaser look would make him pass for intimidating.

Enjolras stepped out of the entryway and into the street, and Grantaire felt the air rush out of his lungs. He wore his red leather jacket, which Grantaire hadn’t caught a glimpse of since the war, curls falling loose from his coif. Grantaire couldn’t have painted a prettier picture. Enjolras glanced around, lighting up when he spotted Grantaire.

Grantaire’s heart beat in sync with Enjolras’s footsteps as the distance between them shortened. Closer, closer, closer, until Grantaire could smell something expensive waft off the other man, could spot where the razor had slipped, just under his chin.

“Evening,” Grantaire croaked out.

“You look…” Enjolras began, chewing on his lip when the words didn’t come.

Grantaire huffed out a laugh. “Well, I’m playing a part, aren’t I?”

If he could sense the lie, Enjolras didn’t comment. It was impossible to miss the colour that highlighted his cheeks, even in the evening gloom. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at Grantaire. Grantaire bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to hide the disappointment he felt. Enjolras wouldn’t want to see Grantaire like this, wouldn’t want to be seen with Grantaire like this, wouldn’t like to be seen with Grantaire at all, for that matter.

“Lead the way,” Enjolras finally remarked, and Grantaire obeyed.

They walked through winding streets, forfeiting paved avenues for cobblestoned and cracked older routes that snaked in between houses yet to be rebuilt from the war. Enjolras complained about the government’s failed recovery efforts as Grantaire watched the clouds overhead, which hung heavy with the promise of rain.

He walked quickly, trying halfheartedly to lose Enjolras in the throngs of people they pushed past. His attempt at being an ass was thwarted when Enjolras’s fingers gripped his sleeve, and then he slowed. When they found themselves on a quieter avenue, Grantaire waited for Enjolras to let go. He didn’t.

Enjolras’s arm snaked through Grantaire’s, linking their elbows together loosely. Grantaire looked up at his companion, who was staring resolutely forward.

“Playing a part,” Enjolras muttered, his breath warm on Grantaire’s cheek.

Grantaire hummed in response, his heart in his throat. “Excellent performance.”

“You too,” Enjolras said.

“I have a hard time picturing you dance,” Grantaire blurted out, drunk on proximity and shared body heat.

“For good reason,” Enjolras said, glaring down at his feet. “I’m bad at it.”

“You? Bad at something?”

“Hilarious,” he deadpanned. “But I will not be demonstrating.”

“Like hell you won’t. If I can teach Marius –”

“—I have you to thank for that?”

Grantaire laughed. “It was like putting a poodle on roller skates at first, but by lesson three his elbows weren’t considered potential weapons to passerby.”

“Shame. That was my favourite part of parties – comparing Marius bruises.”

“And here I thought it was arguing with me.”

“The bruises are a close second.”

Grantaire couldn’t let go of the image of Enjolras - golden child of the revolution—as a wallflower. “Tell me this – a pretty girl asks you to dance, what do you say?”

“No.”

“Just – no?”

“I don’t have time for that sort of thing.”

“Too busy saving the world?”

“With my career,” he argued, but if it sounded weak to Grantaire’s ears, he couldn’t imagine how it sounded to Enjolras. “The work I do – it’s important, and time consuming. I wouldn’t be much of a husband.”

“Most men aren’t. That doesn’t stop them.”

“You’re still single.”

“I’m an alcoholic who lives in his office. Most smart women tend to avoid that sort of thing.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again. After a beat, he said, “You’re funny. And a good dancer. That should be enough.”

“Aren’t you charming this evening,” Grantaire drawled, ignoring the heat that flooded his cheeks.

Enjolras huffed. Belatedly, Grantaire realized it must have been a laugh. “I can give a speech, I can organize a resistance, I can win cases – but I can’t…” Enjolras gestured at nothing. “The right words don’t come.”

“Well, you’re handsome and charismatic. That should be enough.”

Grantaire was rewarded with another huff and a grin. He looked away, scared of getting caught staring.

They meandered down an alleyway until they stood at the top of a discreet set of basement stairs.

“You sure about this?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. “There might be things in there you don’t—”

“—I’ll survive,” Enjolras said sharply. He descended the stairs and Grantaire followed close on his heels. They reached the door and Enjolras stood back, waiting for Grantaire to open it.

Grantaire sighed, resigning himself to an uncomfortable evening. “Well blondie, welcome to JVJ’s.”

With that, he opened the door.

JVJ’s had been a discovery of Grantaire’s after the war. He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d found it, just that he’d woken up in the bathroom when the most muscular man he’d ever encountered splashed a cup of water on his head. The man helped him into a cab and paid for his ride home. When he returned the next evening, he left a generous tip for Valjean, who tended his own bar and made a damn fine whiskey sour. A week later, he had taken Eponine, who enjoyed attention from a far more charming crowd than what she usually attracted.

American jazz greeted them, an upbeat tune that fifty-odd people were swinging around the dance floor to. The band was small but knew what they were doing, which was clear in the enthusiasm of the crowd. There were far more men than women – the women that were there were factory girls, tough and cool in a way Grantaire could never pull off. The men varied, except the regulars – which Grantaire counted himself a part of. He had just enough knowledge of what happened in the bathroom at JVJ’s to take whoever looked at him with enough disdain to the bathroom at the Musain instead.

It was warm, so he shrugged off his jacket. Enjolras, who had been watching the dance floor with both interest and resentment, was fixated suddenly on Grantaire’s exposed arms.

“Let me know when you want to bolt, sweetheart,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras’s eyes jumped to Grantaire’s face, a spark of panic in his eyes. “What’s, uh, the bar’s connection to Eponine?”

“The owner half adopted her,” Grantaire said. “He has a grown daughter and a spare room. Eponine slept there sometimes. So did Gav.”

“Would Gavroche come here?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire shook his head.

“He’d go to JVJ – the man, not the bar. I know him.” Slowly, like he was approaching a spooked horse, Grantaire put a hand on Enjolras’s arm. “Hey, just – let me do the talking.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Look pretty and keep me from drinking,” Grantaire said. Belatedly, he tacked on, “Too much, anyway.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but Grantaire was grateful he was distracted. A man across the bar was eyeing Enjolras in a way that was half as reverent and twice as belligerent as the looks Grantaire gave him, and that spelled trouble. Then again, so did the whole ‘take Enjolras to JVJ’s’ idea. Grantaire was hesitant to get too close. He wondered if Enjolras would be able to smell it on him, if his heart rate and blood direction would give him away. But what was worse – Grantaire, or a stranger?

“Hold my hand,” Grantaire said, his voice barely a rasp. “Please.”

Enjolras entwined his fingers with Grantaire’s with a surprising lack of argument, tugging Grantaire towards the bar like he was heading into battle. He sat them near the end and waved at the bartender, who – based on the back of his head – was definitely not the man they were looking for.

“Fuck,” Grantaire muttered. “This better not be his night off.”

“I’m not sure I fit the dress code,” Enjolras said, reaching for his jacket.

“Don’t you dare. That jacket hasn’t left your closet since the war, let it have its big night out.”

The bartender approached them, and Grantaire vaguely recognized him – enough to wonder if they had traded favors at the Musain once. He grimaced and tried to twist it into a smile as the bartender approached them.

“R,” the bartender said, a little too cheerily. “And who’s this?”

“A frie—” Grantaire began, and then Enjolras swung his arm over Grantaire’s shoulder and Grantaire’s brain went very quiet.

“Enjolras. Pleasure,” Enjolras said, his hand draped over Grantaire’s chest, fingers brushing against Grantaire’s pec muscle, far too close to the heart that was hammering underneath.

“Oh,” the bartender said, and Grantaire realized he might run his mouth a little too much if borderline strangers knew who Enjolras was to him. He wrapped his arm around Enjolras’s waist, and the man at the other end of the bar finally looked away. “Nice to meet you, I’m—”

“—sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping to introduce Enj to VJ first,” Grantaire lied.

The bartender cocked an eyebrow at the request. “He just stepped out back. Something about a delivery.” He lit a cigarette, and then beamed at Grantaire a little too widely. “You know what? Why don’t you go surprise him.”

“We can wait,” Grantaire began, but Enjolras was already standing, looking for the exit.

He found himself tugged along, the hand on his shoulder moving to his hip, knocking him slightly off balance. Grantaire groaned, knowing they were walking into something not good, but unable to verbalize it because Enjolras’s hand was perilously close to his dick, robbing his brain of the blood it needed to communicate.

They crossed the dance floor, ducking and weaving between people, and Grantaire summoned the courage to grab Enjolras by the waist once more, slowing him down.

“We might be walking into something,” Grantaire tried. Enjolras turned, his face suddenly very close to Grantaire’s.

The song changed. Something sweeter, slower. Enjolras fixed him with a strange expression, one Grantaire couldn’t read.

“You’re a boxer, right?” Enjolras asked. “Worst case scenario.”

Grantaire sighed. “Yes. Worst case scenario.”

“And I can hold my own.”

“Look, blondie, you–”

“—you spend a lot of time worried about me,” Enjolras said. “But it wasn’t me the bartender was looking at.”

Grantaire paused, surprised. “What, were you defending my honor?”

Enjolras made the same strange expression, then looked away. “Forget it. Let’s go see what’s out back.”

They exited the back door and Grantaire immediately missed the coat he’d abandoned indoors. A small loading bay met them: an open truck abandoned, bottles of liquor half unpacked by the door. Alarm bells rang in Grantaire’s head, and then he heard it – a soft gasp and corresponding grunt. Two pairs of boots visible under the truck also gave it away.

Grantaire couldn’t help but smirk, half out of bemusement and half out of pride. Valjean was – _finally_ – getting his rocks off.

He held a finger to his lips at Enjolras, reaching for the door. His shoe scuffed on the pavement and the sound rang out in the loading bay.

Grantaire froze like a deer in the headlights when he heard, loud and clear, the bark of Javert’s voice.

“Who’s there?!”

Enjolras opened his mouth and Grantaire clamped a hand over it.

“Didn’t know you had this spot reserved, Javert,” Grantaire replied, heart pounding in his chest.

“Goddamn greaser PI,” Javert said. “Get lost.”

The second set of shoes shifted almost guiltily, and then pants were being pulled up and Grantaire felt awful.

“No, no – have at it. I was just – here for the same thing,” Grantaire said, his voice shifting up an octave and then dropping down again as he glanced at Enjolras, who looked confused. Suddenly, the light bulb went off, and Grantaire could feel Enjolras’s face heating up under his hand.

While Enjolras might have taken a second to understand what was happening, he was quick to act once he got it. He grabbed Grantaire by the lapels and stepped backwards until he was pressed against the brick wall, Grantaire’s thigh between his legs. They bumped foreheads, both wincing at the impact.

The pain was just enough to keep Grantaire unaroused, but he knew that once the headache wore off, he’d be in trouble.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” he whispered, mostly to himself. 

Enjolras wasn’t looking at him. He was looking intently at the floor just behind Grantaire’s shoulder, watching Javert’s boots.

“He can’t know I – we…” Enjolras muttered in Grantaire’s ear.

“I’ll block you until we can get JVJ alone,” Grantaire said lowly. “I’m sorry if—”

“—why are you sorry? You’re in the same situation,” Enjolras whispered snappily.

They were not in the same situation, because Grantaire’s headache had worn off and the proximity to Enjolras’s dick and his own to Enjolras’s thigh was leaving him dizzy and perhaps the most turned on he’d ever been. His heart pounded on his ribs, wanting out of the body that was making it work so hard. He attempted to shuffle back to hide it, but Enjolras tugged him closer once more. It took him a second to understand why, but then he glanced over his shoulder and saw Javert’s boots moving, heading towards the back door.

“Fuck,” Grantaire muttered, then grabbed Enjolras by the nape of his neck and pulled him in. For a moment, their lips were centimeters apart, noses brushing. Grantaire shut his eyes, trying his best to memorize this moment. He immediately wished he hadn’t, because then they were kissing.

He felt guilty about his chapped lips, and his five o’clock shadow, and the way his sharp nose brushed against Enjolras’s marble features. But then there were hands in his hair, tugging gently on the strands, and it was hard to think beyond that. On instinct, his hands slid up underneath Enjolras’s jacket. Enjolras let out a soft groan, and there was no denying Grantaire was hard, now. He prayed to every god that might be listening that Enjolras didn’t comment on it.

Behind them, footsteps. The back door opened and shut.

The excuse was gone. That didn’t stop Enjolras from parting his lips and Grantaire eagerly accepting the invitation. For what felt like only a few precious seconds, but was more likely a couple of minutes, Grantaire enjoyed the clumsiest kiss of his life. It was nothing like his occasional daydream – their noses bumped and Enjolras clung to him like a drowning man, enthusiastically moaning into his mouth. No, this was much, much better.

It was impossible to tell who pulled back first, breathless and flushed. A second heavy set of boots appeared behind them, but Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to look away from Enjolras. Enjolras noticed this dilemma and turned Grantaire’s head towards Valjean, who sported a bemused expression.

“R,” Valjean said. “And – blond, in red – Enjolras, I presume?”

“How--?” Enjolras asked.

Valjean shot Grantaire a look, then replied: “We run in similar circles, son.”

“You’re fraternizing with the enemy,” Grantaire pointed out.

“You’re sucking face with a straight boy behind my bar.”

“It’s for work,” Enjolras said quickly. “I’m Eponine Thenardier’s lawyer. We’re trying to find Gavroche.”

“I don’t suppose he’s in R’s mouth, is he?” Valjean replied, and Enjolras went scarlet.

“Javert. Javert,” Grantaire repeated. “How many damn times has he tried to arrest you?”

A big hand came down on Grantaire’s shoulder, and then he was being pushed lightly towards the bottles, half unpacked.

“Help me with my job, and I’ll see if I can help you with yours,” Valjean replied, smiling warmly.

Grantaire got to work, Enjolras close on his heels. He waved off Enjolras (who didn’t look like he’d done a day of hard labor in his life) with an affectionate, “We’ll be done in a few minutes, blondie.”

Enjolras sat on a spare crate, half glaring at Grantaire, half staring with an expression that had become familiar but was still irritatingly impossible to read. Grantaire tried his best to focus on the heavy bottles in his arms and the silhouette of Valjean’s back in the low light. But he could still feel fingers in his hair, could still taste Enjolras on his lips, could still feel Enjolras’s thigh between his own. He doubted he’d ever forget. He could drink the entirety of the Seine in liquor and he’d still recall every second of this evening—half terrifying, half magical.

“To answer your question,” Valjean said lowly, snapping Grantaire out of his reverie, “You and I have led challenging lives. Discomfort forced us to become comfortable with who we are. That’s a gift, R. One Javert hasn’t received. Or Enjolras.”

Grantaire glanced out of the corner of his eye, making sure Enjolras was out of earshot. “Enjolras’s not—”

“—I said the same thing about Javert,” Valjean said. He shook his head, face lost in shadow. “It must be very lonely to think of yourself as a saint for not acting on the sins in your head.”

The last box of bottles put away, Grantaire looked back at Enjolras, who was staring in his direction, fingers gripping his knees, knuckles white in the dark. Grantaire wiped the sweat from his brow, jerking his head at Enjolras, silently asking him to follow. Enjolras was by his side in seconds. Grantaire cursed the long legs he had not been gifted with.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” Enjolras chastised, glancing at Grantaire’s exposed arms.

“Who are you, Joly?” Grantaire teased, but before he could continue, Enjolras had taken off his jacket and was draping it over Grantaire’s shoulders. The witty phrase he’d prepared died on his lips as he found himself dressed in red, Enjolras’s subtle cologne wrapping around him.

“I—” Grantaire tried. He cleared his throat, then said, “—I might stretch it.”

“Stretch it, then.”

“You’ll get cold.”

“You were sweating. You’ll freeze soon enough.”

“I’m built of stronger stuff that that.”

“And I’m not?”

Valjean clapped his hands together, summoning their attention. “Gentlemen – join me in my office, please.”

Jazz reverberated through the walls as Valjean tucked himself into a slightly too small chair behind a too small desk that was covered in neat piles of receipts. Grantaire moved to give Enjolras back the jacket, but a dark glare stopped him in his tracks. He put it on instead. The look softened into something close to approval and then Valjean was once again clearing his throat.

“You think Gavroche…?” he asked, concern clear on his face.

“We have unanswered questions,” Enjolras said.

“No one’s seen him, and we’re worried,” Grantaire tacked on, trying the more humanitarian approach for Valjean’s sake. Judging by the way Valjean’s brow smoothed, Grantaire could tell he’d hit his mark. “We’re not the cops, VJ. We’re just trying to keep Eponine out of jail.”

Valjean ran a hand over his face. “I should have done more.”

“Did you know the murder was—” Enjolras began, stopping when Grantaire put a hand on his leg.

“I should have,” Valjean said. “I didn’t think it would come to this. I assumed they’d come to me first. Eponine’s stubborn, but not violent.”

“And Gav?” Grantaire asked.

Valjean paused, choosing his words carefully. “He’s a good kid. Someday, he’ll be a good man. But…”

“But,” Grantaire agreed.

Valjean turned to Enjolras, expression stern. “He’s fourteen – old enough to be considered damnable. Do you think they would send him to prison, or just straight to the guillotine?”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “I’m not going to let that happen. I’ll defend them both.”

“You’re one man, son. You can’t—”

“—two,” Grantaire said. “We’re two.”

They left JVJ’s with an old receipt in hand, on the back of which a motel address was written – the closest thing they had to a lead on Gavroche’s location. Grantaire’s jacket was retrieved, although somehow it had ended up draped over Enjolras’s shoulders instead. They made an odd pair – both exhausted in clothes that clearly weren’t made for them, bumping shoulders and saying very little as they crossed the streets in the dark.

“I don’t know what to do,” Enjolras said, breaking the silence. “I could go for reasonable doubt, play them against each other, or suggest a third party, but Eponine was found at the scene, and I – I just don’t know.”

Grantaire brushed his knuckles against the back of Enjolras’s hand. “First thing’s first – sleep. You look like you haven’t in a while.”

“You haven’t, either.”

“The couch in my office has a spring that’s digging into my back like it’ll find gold there,” he said. He shrugged, repressing the urge to yawn. “No rest for the wicked. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“That’s a long time from now,” Enjolras said. After a beat, he added, “My couch doesn’t have any rogue springs.”

“Lucky you.”

“I’m saying you should sleep there, smartass.”

Silence returned. Enjolras turned to Grantaire, and every excuse Grantaire was coming up with died when he saw the anxiety in Enjolras’s eyes.

“That’s – thank you, that’s very generous,” Grantaire said. “But I worry what your doorman will think.”

“I’ll tip.”

“An awful lot of expenses are coming out of your pocket.”

“It’s a deep pocket.”

That made Grantaire chuckle. “You’re going to become Valjean, sweetheart.”

Enjolras scoffed. “I’d never sleep with a cop.”

“In his defense, I don’t think they’re doing a whole lot of sleeping.”

Enjolras smiled. Grantaire hadn’t really given him an answer, but when they approached Enjolras’s building Grantaire was distracted enough to let himself be led towards the ridiculously decorated elevator – it had clearly aspired to be art deco and sorely missed the mark. Enjolras pretended to listen to Grantaire complain about this while he slipped the doorman a franc.

The apartment was decorated tastefully in a way that made Grantaire sure he had paid someone else to do it. He shot Enjolras an enquiring look, and Enjolras replied with, “Feuilly.”

“Ah.” Grantaire ran a hand over the modern couch; all clean lines and well-maintained leather, notably missing any springs sticking up from it. “Business is good, I take it?”

Enjolras poured them both a conservative amount of cognac into glasses that Grantaire suspected were heirlooms from a family Enjolras never mentioned.

“They want to make me a partner,” Enjolras said. “Youngest in the firm.”

“I’d say congratulations, but you don’t sound elated.”

Enjolras flopped down on the couch. Grantaire sat next to him, leaving a careful amount of space between them.

“Yeah, well.” Enjolras took a sip, looking everywhere but at Grantaire. “It’s just a title. I’ll come back here at the end of the day and it’ll look the same. The world will be the same. So will I.”

“How long have we known each other?” Grantaire asked.

“Nine years in March,” Enjolras replied. At Grantaire’s arched eyebrow, he tacked on, “I, ah, have a good memory.”

“Nine years and I would never have thought you’d be comfortable walking into a place like JVJ’s. With me, no less.”

“I would have only gone with you.”

Grantaire blinked. “I don’t –”

“—can I ask you –” Enjolras began, but he was interrupted by the phone ringing. 

“It’s late for a call,” Grantaire remarked, and Enjolras looked like he was about to agree when he picked up the receiver. Abruptly, he went pale. Then he shut his eyes and Grantaire thought he might be praying.

“Thanks,” Enjolras said sharply, hanging up. “Damn it,” he swore. “Damn it all.”

“What?” Grantaire asked, afraid of the answer. Immediately, he realized he was right to be.

“Eponine just confessed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between updates, friends! Was dealing with some life stuff, but rest assured I read and reread all your lovely comments and was inspired to make this the longest chapter yet. There's a line in here I'm very proud of that I think Vic Hugo himself would approve of - gold star to anyone who can guess which one it is! 
> 
> Thank you for waiting, reading, and all your lovely feedback :)


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